This poem is dedicated to my brothers: three who never leave the water and the one who can’t wait to join them. To the uncle who all too gladly shares his water. To the grand-man of the same blood who inspired them with his life and to the man with the canoe who is starting a fishing legacy of his own.
‘Come to me, all you who are weary ladened
and I will grant you rest’
And so to the rivers and streams His whisper runs
while into them He slipped his best.
He taught the salmon to swim upstream,
He showed the catfish where to hide,
He directed the suns strong beam
to catch the rainbow on the trouts glimmering side.
‘Come, come’ He calls to the heavy souls,
‘come wash away the past.
Come place your feet in the cold, cool deep,
come teach your line to cast.’
And so the man, inclined his ear
and called his aching bones to rise,
to walk the road down to the water
to gain the well earned prize.
He learned to call the fish by name,
and taught his feet to stand,
while all around the river tamed
to his ever moving hand.
Over and over he followed that road,
at the end of a long, hard day.
The current called ‘come lighten the load!’
and later, later he stayed.
‘Last cast, last cast,’ he’d promise himself
but the promise was in vain
for his heart asked for another one
and his arm would throw again.